


Sex, Booze & Consequences

by ThornWild



Series: The Jacob and Marcus Tales [4]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, Gay Sex, M/M, Swearing, angry men, creative swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornWild/pseuds/ThornWild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're no good without one another. They both know that, deep down. Because when they're apart, they make some really stupid decisions. Contains gratuitous swearing and a whole lot of booze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marcus

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [GayAuthors.Org](http://www.gayauthors.org/story/thorn-wilde/sexboozeconsequences). Betaed by [Sasha Distan](http://www.gayauthors.org/author/sasha-distan).

He doesn’t really know why he’s agreed to go to a church function in the first place, but his mother so wanted him to come, so here he is, drinking coffee and trying to avoid the priest who’s been attempting to catch his eye—not, he assumes, in order to seduce him, but rather in order to convince him to come to church more often.

‘Marcus!’ his mother calls. ‘I’d like you to meet someone! This is Jenny Clarkson.’

She’s very pretty. A couple of years younger than him, perhaps, with dark hair and a fair complexion and light brown eyes flecked with gold. She smiles at him and shakes his hand and they exchange ‘pleased to meet you’s and ‘how do you do’s. 

‘You’ve changed,’ she remarks. 

‘Do we know each other?’ he asks, a little embarrassed.

‘We went to school together, but I doubt we ever spoke,’ she assures him. ‘Everyone knew who you were. I’m not surprised at your not remembering me, I was nobody.’

‘You look like somebody to me,’ he says softly. He realises he’s flirting. Why is he flirting? Marcus has never liked a woman before, but something about this one seems to interest him. 

‘Mary tells me you’re a barrister?’ Jenny inquires, and for a while they talk about Marcus’s work. Then they talk about Jenny’s work. She studied sociology and works with marginalised youth—the very essence of Christian charity. She seems like such a sweet, compassionate human being, and for a moment Marcus wonders what it would be like to be with a girl, to be normal, to not have to hide anything from his mother and be accepted in church and just be a person.

They meet for coffee the following day, and then for lunch the day after that, and Marcus enjoys her company immensely. They have so much in common, they think the same, they are, in so many many ways, the same. It’s good to have a friend again, albeit one he tries not to swear at too much and is perhaps a bit gentler towards than is his usual way.

Then he realises that in the real world, men and women aren’t just friends, apparently, and that when he takes her out to dinner, she thinks it’s a date. One thing leads to another, and it’s just so convenient. He really does like her, and when he tells her that he loves her, many months later, that’s not a lie either. He really, truly fucking _wants_ to be in love with her. He convinces himself that this can work, that as long as he loves her they can be together. Maybe he wasn’t gay after all. Maybe he just never met the right woman.

But when he takes her to bed on their wedding night, he has to keep his eyes closed. He has to pretend that her moans are deeper in character, that her skin is rougher and her hair shorter, and he feels miserable and horrible. He is, he knows, a shit person.

* * *

The first time it happens, it’s with an intern from work, and how much of a fucking cliché isn’t that? Marcus quickly takes note of Neil, who has floppy dark hair and brown eyes, but is a little bit tall for his liking. Twenty-three years old, a bright young thing, fresh out of law school. And perhaps he lets his gaze linger a little longer than necessary on Neil’s well-shaped arse, as he walks away after dropping off a memo. He would never act on it, he convinces himself. Not at work. You don’t shit where you eat.

Then comes the office Christmas party, and Marcus attends out of politeness, drinks mulled wine and whisky and puts on his best sociable mask (it’s a good mask; no one’s caught him out yet). He’s starting to get drunk, and suddenly Neil is at his side, laughing at something another intern just said and taking Marcus by the arm.

‘Jesus, look at you, you’re getting really pissed,’ he murmurs. ‘Come on.’ And then he whisks Marcus away from their coworkers and leads him towards the gents’. Marcus concedes that he is rather drunk and follows meekly.

When they get there, Neil checks that the booths are empty and then locks the door before pouncing on Marcus. Marcus lets himself be pushed up against the wall, lets Neil’s tongue enter his mouth, lets the boy loosen his tie, before he remembers who he is and where they are and the fact that his boss and all his coworkers are next door, and pushes him off again.

He draws a few shallow breaths, staring at the cocky youth before him (and he’s only about six years older than Neil, Marcus has to remind himself, even if he feels fucking ancient lately; he’ll be thirty in May). Then he clears his throat and says, ‘I’m, er, I’m flattered really, Neil, but . . . I’m married.’ It’s a lame excuse, for all that it’s true. Marcus wants Neil more than he’s ever wanted Jenny.

‘What, seriously? I thought you just wore that ring to deter people.’ Neil smirks. ‘You don’t act like a married man. Is he nice?’

‘She,’ Marcus corrects him.

‘ _She_?’ Neil repeats, and then he laughs. ‘Oh, the poor woman . . . Does she know her husband’s gay, then?’

‘You listen here, you little arseleakage—’ Marcus begins, but deflates almost immediately. ‘No,’ he says quietly. ‘She doesn’t know.’

‘Only, you pinged on my gaydar pretty much the moment I saw you. Plus you’ve been checking me out for weeks, don’t think I haven’t noticed.’ Neil steps closer. ‘So, how about it?’ he asks softly. ‘Wanna have some fun?’

Marcus places a hand on his chest and glances towards the door. Music and laughter are seeping in through the crack underneath. Almost everyone he knows is in that room. ‘Not here,’ he says softly. He looks at Neil again. The intern stares back with lidded eyes. ‘Your place.’

‘Okay,’ says Neil and smiles.

Marcus has been married for less than a year. Jenny is four months pregnant. They probably haven’t made love since conception. He uses that term in his head, ‘made love’, because he can’t call what he and Jenny do fucking or shagging. She’s his wife, she’s a lady, and it’s the only language available to him.

He and Neil fuck. Repeatedly and with abandon, for several months, until Meg is born just after Marcus’s thirtieth birthday. Then the guilt becomes too much to bear and he breaks it off. Some months later, he meets another gorgeous young man, and the whole process starts again, and Marcus hates himself.

* * *

He lets her have the house.

He moves out quietly, goes to a hotel first where he spends a week in a drunken stupor and doesn’t see anyone. It’s easier that way. Easier to live with the fucking shame and guilt if he can’t remember it properly. He dreads most explaining it to his mother. At least she got the grandchild she always wanted. He wonders if she’ll forgive him. When at last he does tell her, the love and acceptance she gives him is worse than any anger or condemnation could ever have been.

When he’s finally sober enough to move from his bed, he communicates with Jenny through her solicitor. She wants a divorce, of course, good Catholic girl or not. That’s fine. So does he. Infidelity is a good way to get it through quickly, so at least some good has come of his indiscretions. He finds a flat. She agrees that Meg can come and stay with him, every other weekend. That’s gracious of her, really, all things considered.

Marcus throws himself into his work. He spends long nights at the office, living mostly on coffee, biscuits and occasional fruit. He has a bottle of whisky stashed in his desk drawer, and when the office is empty, he drinks, eventually falling asleep over his notes and papers. He doesn’t let it affect his work—at least not much—but after a while it becomes a nightly routine. He never drinks in front of Meg, though. When she stays with him, he’s sober. He’s Dad. He hopes she doesn’t notice how thin and weary he looks, or how sad he is. Sometimes he’s almost certain that she does, though, and it kills him.

One night, in a haze of Lagavulin (at least he makes enough money that he can afford to get pissed on quality stuff), he rings Jenny up. He slurs that he never should have married her and that he’s sorry, and that he was gay all along and nothing’s her fault. He tells her that he’s glad he married her anyway, because Meg is beautiful and he can’t imagine life without her. He tells her that he loves her, really, it’s true, he never lied about that. He just doesn’t love her in the way she deserves to be loved and anyway, everything’s so fucking complicated. In the end he realises he’s been ranting at voicemail for twenty minutes and hangs up. If she ever gets it, she never responds. That’s probably for the best.

He doesn’t drink for a while after that.

Then, a few months later when the divorce has just gone through, he finds himself in a hotel bar after a late running meeting in a town near by his old university, and he feels like he’s seeing a ghost when Jacob approaches the bar next to him, looking exactly the same as he did ten years ago, really, and it occurs to Marcus for the first time that the reason he’s so fond of smokey Islay malts might be that they remind him of this scruffy fuck, who always smoked too much in spite of his fucking asthma. 

It’s good, that night. It’s better than good. It’s amazing. Marcus is drunk. Marcus says a lot of really stupid shit that he would never say were he sober. And it’s okay because Jacob does too. See, booze _is_ a good thing. Isn’t it?

Some weeks later, Jacob comes to see him, and they spend a weekend fucking and not much else. But then Jacob goes back home, and Marcus is left alone again, just him and his mind, except for his weekends with Meg, and it gets worse again. What’s even worse is that now Christmas is approaching. His mother invites him over. Her sister’s over from Belfast. Marcus declines. Meg is with her mother and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins for Christmas. He hopes she’s happy. It’s the kind of Christmas a child should have.

And so he sits in his flat, and drinks, and drinks. And drinks. Until the memories fade. Until all he can taste and feel and smell is whisky. He drinks until he passes out on the floor. 

It could be hours later, or days, but he’s roused briefly from his stupor by someone breaking into his flat. He thinks he should care. He doesn’t. Then he wakes up in his bed, mostly naked, mouth tasting like death, and there, at his bedside, sits Jacob.

‘You fucking cunt!’ he shouts, standing up the moment Marcus opens his eyes. ‘What the titwanking hell do you think you’re doing? Are you fucking trying to kill yourself? I’ve been calling you all fucking week! I even tracked down your mum’s number to see if she’d heard from you. You had to be here, didn’t you? Hiding like some fucking coward. I had to stick my fucking fingers down your throat, you disgusting fucking pig!’

Then, all shouted out, Jacob collapses in the chair, falling forwards onto Marcus’s chest, and starts to shake. He might be sobbing. Marcus doesn’t ask. Let the man keep his dignity. Instead he raises a hand weakly and twists his long fingers into Jacob’s hair. Jacob covers the hand with his own, gripping tightly. ‘Don’t you ever, _ever_ do anything like this to me again or I will fashion a fucking football out of your skull and sell it to fucking Man United! And then I’ll light the rest of your miserable bloody carcass on fire and watch it burn while singing the motherfucking Bloodhound Gang.’ His threats are made somewhat less ominous by virtue of being mumbled into the duvet covering Marcus’s abdomen. 

Marcus takes a deep breath. It rattles in his throat and he coughs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he croaks at last. ‘I’m really . . . Forgive me?’ Jacob makes a non-committal grunt in response and grips the hand in his hair even more tightly. ‘Could . . . Think I could have some water?’ Marcus tries after a moment.

‘Get your own, you twat,’ Jacob mumbles. 

‘I’d love to, but you’re on my chest.’

Jacob gets up, picks up the empty glass on the nightstand and vanishes without another word. He returns a minute later with the glass full and hands it to Marcus who gulps it all down at once.

‘Clearly I can’t leave you alone,’ Jacob grumbles. ‘You’re obviously utterly incapable of looking after yourself, you dumb shit.’

Marcus smiles. He doesn’t think it’s normal to be this happy about being called a cunt, a pig, a twat and a dumb shit all in the space of five minutes, but he is anyway. ‘Well, you’re just gonna have to come visit more often, then,’ he says, his voice a bit closer to its usual tone now that he’s no longer as parched as the fucking Gobi desert.

‘Fucking right I will.’ Jacob glares at him with dark eyes, but after a moment his expression softens. ‘You’re such a fucktard, Marcus.’

‘I know.’

‘I fucking . . .’ He licks his lips and sits back in the chair, running a hand through his hair.

‘I know. It’s all right. You don’t have to—’

Jacob leans forward, placing a finger on Marcus’s lips to shut him up and glowers at him. ‘I’m only gonna say this once, so pay attention, you fucking fuckarse!’ He looks away, swallows and looks back at him. ‘I couldn’t fucking live if something happened to you. I don’t want anyone else. You’re the only one who—Fuck me, I sound like such a fucking girl! My point is, I fucking love you and you’d best get used to having me around.’

Marcus doesn’t know what to say to that. His chest feels tight, and his eyes feel really weird, and he’s pretty sure he’s not yet entirely sober, though he feels the onset of a fucking massive hangover. So instead he kisses the finger on his lips and, with whatever modicum of strength he has left, pulls Jacob up onto the bed with him. Jacob pushes the duvet aside and settles next to him, wrapping both arms around him and holding him tightly. Marcus turns over on his side so Jacob can snuggle up against his back.

‘Fuckwit,’ Jacob murmurs. ‘Merry Christmas.’

Marcus wants to say something, but he doesn’t know how to say it, and he’s not entirely certain he can without crying. He clutches Jacob’s hand to his chest and draws a shaky breath and it feels so fucking good to just be held for a moment.

It’s possible that, as he drifts off to sleep, Marcus mutters a drowsy, ‘I love you.’ It’s also possible that Jacob kisses the back of his neck several times, calls him a cunt or something similarly offensive again, and that from his lips the word sounds like a term of affection. Marcus won’t quite be able to remember; he was very drunk at the time. And soon he’s asleep.


	2. Jacob

He thinks it’s his asthma flaring up, the first time. He can’t breathe, feels as though his throat and chest are constricted, like he’s choking, and it scares him so much that he starts sobbing. His flatmate, Darren (who is fantastically straight, thank fuck, so there’s never been any sexual tension) takes him to A&E, where they inform him that, no, this is not an asthma attack. 

Ironically, his GP informs him, one of the things that might have helped his anxiety is cigarettes. But, of course, Jacob quit smoking several months ago, at her urging. He catches himself licking his lips, chewing the ends of pens, even more frequently than he used to. He smoked just as much for something to put in his mouth as for anything else. And he doesn’t like chewing gum.

Instead, she prescribes him meditation techniques. Breathing exercises and the like. Jacob tries to do them, at first, but he feels like such a fucking idiot even just trying, so in the end he gives up. She also prescribes him medication, which he outright refuses to take. He agrees to see a shrink every other week, though. For all the good that does him.

In the end, he takes to drinking, and bringing home even more strange men than usual. Darren worries about him, enough that he calls Jacob’s sister Elinor, who in her turn calls Jacob and asks him if he’s quite all right and if he needs anything.

‘You know you can talk to me,’ she tries. ‘Whatever’s going on, I . . . You’re my brother. I want to help you.’

‘I know, Ellie. I’m fine, really. I promise.’

‘Darren says you’ve been missing work.’

‘Darren should learn to mind his own fucking business . . . I’m still meeting my deadlines.’

Elinor sighs loudly. ‘Look, Jacob, just come round next weekend, yeah? Gemma misses you.’

After some persuasion, Jacob agrees, and the next weekend he hops a train down to where Elinor lives now, with her husband Noel and their two kids. Gemma is nearly three, and talks up a storm, stuttering a bit because she just has _too much to say_ and her tongue can’t keep up, while Jamie is just a baby still. Jacob likes being an uncle more than he thought he would. He wonders if that means he’s a grown up now. The thought scares him. Pop culture tells him thirty is like fifty in gay years.

When the kiddles are asleep and Noel is in the shower, Elinor sits Jacob down in the garden with a cup of tea. It’s a little bit chilly. She covers them both in blankets.

‘Things aren’t quite right with you, are they?’ she asks kindly.

Jacob scoffs and takes a sip of his tea. ‘Things are never quite fucking right with me,’ he admits. ‘Talking to this shrink . . .’ He shakes his head and grimaces. ‘I sort of realise how fucked up I am, you know? And that stresses me out, so I kind of just ignore it. Do what I’ve always done, just . . . More of it.’

She nods, slowly, and looks thoughtful. ‘You were okay for a while,’ she says at last. ‘Not any more _normal_ , perhaps, but,’ she seems to search for the word, meets his eye, ‘happy. Years ago, now. While we were both still living at home. When you were at uni.’

Jacob smiles in spite of himself. ‘I was, wasn’t I?’

‘You haven’t really been happy, since. You put on your smile and you act like a human being when you have to, but . . . You’re my brother, Jacob. I know when things aren’t right.’

‘Yeah.’

It doesn’t occur to him just then how everything correlates. It won’t occur to him until much later, when it’s too late to change the events that are to follow, why he does what he does. That the time when he was happy was a direct result of what, or rather whom he was doing at the time, and not the other way around.

* * *

Another night, another club. It’s _him_ again. His name is Cecil, which is a stupid name, Jacob thinks. They’ve shagged three times now. Last time, they went back to Cecil’s flat. Jacob doesn’t really like going home with the guys he fucks. He’d much rather just get off in the club, if he can, or he takes them to his place, where Darren’s next door and Jacob can kick his one night stand out and go back to sleep in the morning. Cecil was persistent, though, and Jacob was very drunk, and anyway, Cecil is somewhat better than the usual rabble. He does what he’s told, and he doesn’t know his own strength, bless him, which is a good thing. He’s a gentle giant, six feet tall with blue eyes and a pale blonde buzz-cut, and a lot more buff than Jacob usually finds attractive. But he’s useful, does the job right. Or as right as anyone has, so far. Anyone who wasn’t—

Jacob shakes the thought from his head. Wrong time. Wrong place. He drains his cocktail. The beer in these places is always shit.

He lets Cecil go home with him. Let’s him shag him silly. He even lets him stay in the morning. They eat waffles and drink orange juice and coffee, and it’s all horribly domestic and sweet. It’s not until they’re standing in the hall, though, Jacob in his pants and an open dressing gown and Cecil fully dressed and ready to leave, and Cecil kisses him gently on the lips and says he’ll call him, that Jacob realises what’s going on. Cecil doesn’t think they’re just fucking. Cecil thinks he’s about to become Jacob’s boyfriend.

He’s gone before Jacob has time to say anything, and proceeds to send him cutesie texts all week. Jacob wonders what he might have said to Cecil, in those fuzzy moments between drunkenness and hangover, after (truly rather amazing) sex, high on endorphins, that could have encouraged this.

When Jacob elects to stay home and read instead of going out to the club the next weekend, suddenly Cecil is there, banging on his door. Jacob refuses to open at first, but Darren tells him in no uncertain terms that if he doesn’t, Darren will let him in himself and he doesn’t care what happens, this is Jacob’s problem.

So he goes to the door, and he lets Cecil in, and the great big lump is actually sobbing, and _hugs_ him.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake . . . Cecil, get _off_!’ Jacob’s always been stronger than he looks, and could always hold his own against bullies twice his size. Now he pushes Cecil away and glares at him. ‘What the hell do you want?’

‘I . . . I was worried. You didn’t answer my texts, and you didn’t turn up at the club. Thought . . . Thought something might have happened to you.’

Jacob rolls his eyes. ‘Christ, Cecil . . . You know we’re just shagging, yeah? I mean, four measly fucks does not a boyfriend make!’

‘I don’t think they were so very measly.’ Cecil looks hurt, and if Jacob were a better man this might have inspired pity. Instead it just makes him angry.

‘Oh, piss off! I just wanted someone to fuck, all right? I don’t want a relationship with you, and don’t tell me you feel the same way because those puppy eyes of yours are telling me different.’

Cecil’s puppy eyes seem to darken, then. ‘You felt something,’ he says softly. ‘I know you did.’ He clenches his fists.

‘Yeah. It’s called an orgasm. And it was a good one, don’t get me wrong, but coming isn’t the same as loving, mate. So, let’s just call it quits, yeah?’

‘No!’ Cecil’s sudden outburst takes Jacob by surprise. ‘I won’t accept that!’ And then he’s on him, kissing him, hard, and pushing him up against the wall, hands now working on his belt.

Jacob likes being hurt. He likes surrendering control, being royally fucked in the literal sense. He likes feeling used while knowing that at any second he can say stop, and they will stop.

This is not like that, and with Cecil’s tongue in his mouth and his body pressed against him, Jacob’s throat closes up and he can’t breathe. He’s panicking again.

Darren’s voice seems to come from far away. ‘Oi, keep your kinky games in the bedroom!’ Then, ‘Jacob? Hey, you, get the fuck off him!’

There’s a brief scuffle, and then Jacob is sinking down to the floor, shaking. Cecil is standing several steps back, staring at him with a look of wide-eyed shock. ‘I’m . . . Oh, God, Jesus, I’m sorry!’ He tries to get to his knees, to touch Jacob, but Darren puts a firm hand on his shoulder.

‘I think you’d better go, mate,’ he says icily. ‘Go on, off you fuck.’

Cecil vanishes rather quickly, and Jacob’s lungs seem to clear. Darren’s at his side now, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

‘I swear, Jacob, you’re one of the smartest people I know, but you can be such a stupid fuck. Come on.’ He pulls Jacob gently to his feet, and right then Jacob could kiss him. He doesn’t. Instead he puts his arms around him and hugs him, sobbing into his shoulder. It’s not part of their usual rapport. They’ll probably never do it again, at least not while one or both of them is sober, but Darren hugs him back. ‘Hey, it’s okay. Just . . . I’ll put the kettle on. Okay?’

* * *

Jacob has a few more random blokes in the next couple of years. No more than he can count on one hand, though. Instead he throws himself into his work, and begins in earnest to work on the novel he’s been thinking about for years. 

In the months leading up to meeting Marcus again, Jacob is pretty much celibate, and that makes their reunion all the sweeter. For the first time in years, he feels properly alive again. He feels happy. He feels as though things could actually be all right. But after a wonderful weekend at Marcus’s flat, he’s suddenly swamped in Christmas stuff and book lists and all kinds of shit, and the two only communicate by phone. Then, on Christmas eve, Marcus doesn’t respond even to that, and Jacob knows, feels, that something is deeply wrong. 

There are several Mary Allens in Marcus’s area, but Jacob finally gets hold of the right one. No, she says, Marcus isn’t with her. And she’s worried, too.

Jacob doesn’t have a car. He takes the train. 

There’s no answer when he rings the doorbell, but the lights are on. A friendly neighbour lets him into the building. He has to break into the flat, which, luckily, is not alarmed. He finds Marcus on the floor, barely conscious, and almost panics again. 

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck! What have you done, you fucking twat? Jesus!’ He gets to his knees, trying very hard not to totally lose his shit.

Marcus is pale and cold, and at first Jacob thinks he’s not breathing, but then he stirs and moans incoherently. He smells like booze.

The skinny fuck can be heavy when he wants to be. Jacob half drags, half carries him into the bathroom and hold his head over the toilet bowl. Marcus doesn’t vomit of his own accord, so, hissing abuse at the dumb cunt in his arms, Jacob sticks two fingers down his throat and lets his gag reflex take care of the rest. Then he takes most of his clothes off and gets him into bed. 

When Marcus comes to, Jacob is so angry, and so relieved, that he says the words he never thought he’d say to anyone ever. Then he crawls into bed with him, wraps his arms around him, and they go to sleep.

* * *

When Jacob wakes up, a few hours later, Marcus is sleeping soundly. Not the heavy, deadened sleep of the drunk, but a normal, peaceful, undisturbed slumber. His breathing is even and his expression mild and untroubled. Jacob hates him for a moment, and then lies there for several minutes, just looking at him and loving him unreservedly.

He goes to piss, and when he returns, Marcus is awake. 

‘Morning,’ Jacob tells him.

‘Merry Christmas,’ Marcus replies sheepishly. He groans and rubs his eyes, sitting up slightly. ‘I’m sorry.’

Jacob shrugs. ‘Water under the bridge, mate.’

‘Yeah. Still.’

‘How are you feeling?’

Marcus yawns, running his fingers through his hair and blinking a few times. ‘Better than I have any fucking right to,’ he says finally. ‘My head doesn’t even hurt . . .’

Jacob crawls back into bed, brushing back the hair from Marcus’s forehead and looking into his green eyes.

‘You ever do that to me again, I’ll beat you so hard your dad will be able to feel it in Hell, got it?’ Then he kisses him. Marcus’s breath could make a skunk faint, but Jacob doesn’t care just then. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, you fucking owe me. So I’d like you to fuck me blind, and then we can start talking about what we can do so nothing like this ever happens again.’

‘Yeah, just let me go piss first. And brush my teeth.’ Marcus grimaces. ‘Tastes like something died in there.’ 

‘Yeah, whatever was left of your fucking dignity.’

It’s slow, and way too fucking gentle, but Jacob doesn’t really mind, because it’s Marcus, and now he wraps his entire body around him and makes him feel, in exactly the way no one else ever could. Jacob thinks, for the first time, that maybe it’s not the pain he needs so badly. Maybe it’s just Marcus.

When Marcus comes, he’s panting, and he has his forehead pressed against Jacob’s and his eyes shoot open, staring Jacob down, green fire burning in his skull. ‘Jacob . . . _Fuck!_ ’

Even if Marcus hadn’t been stroking his cock just then, Jacob thinks the sight would have been enough to set him off, and he comes as well, with a long, drawn out whine. 

Marcus collapses on top of him and laughs. ‘Oh, fuck . . . Jacob, I—’

‘Shut up! Don’t fucking laugh at me!’ Jacob glares at him. 

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, just let me . . .’ Marcus strokes Jacob’s cheek and looks down at him, smiling fondly. ‘Come on, just let me say it while I’m sober. Thank you. For caring enough to do this. Really, I just . . . I love you.’

There’s a long silence. Jacob’s aware that his own tongue flicks out of his mouth and runs across his lips in a nervous gesture, but he doesn’t look away. His heart is pounding. Last night he was angry, and terrified, and so relieved. Now he’s meant to be calm, high on orgasmic endorphins, mellow and boneless. So how come his chest hurts? How come he feels like he might panic again?

He pulls a few shaky, shallow breaths, and Marcus looks concerned. ‘Is it your asthma?’

Jacob shakes his head. ‘No, I’m okay, I’m—’ He pauses, takes another, deeper breath and finds that it reaches his lungs just fine. ‘I’m fucking okay,’ he says. ‘I’m . . . I love you.’ He surprises even himself by saying it, and smiles faintly. ‘Fuck, I . . . I’m sorry it’s taken me so fucking long. I’m a twat.’

‘Yeah. You are.’ But Marcus is smiling as he says it, and he leans down and kisses Jacob gently on the lips. ‘But you’re _my_ twat.’

Jacob laughs. ‘Wow. Seriously? That’s just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘Good. I’m so fucking beyond caring.’ Marcus bites his neck possessively. ‘Mine,’ he states again. 

‘Fine. Whatever.’ Jacob shakes his head. Then he pulls Marcus down on top of him and kisses him. ‘Yours,’ he whispers into his lover’s mouth. If Marcus actually hears him, he doesn’t let on.

‘I’ve got Meg next weekend,’ says Marcus, when they’re lying side by side some minutes later. 

‘Oh. I guess . . . Guess I’ll see you the weekend after, then?’

‘If . . . If you want, you could . . .’ Marcus rubs his scalp distractedly and looks away. ‘You could come and meet her.’

Jacob blinks. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yeah. If you want.’ Marcus looks at him hesitantly. ‘Do you?’

‘Fuck, yeah!’ Jacob grins. ‘Of course I want to meet your spawn!’

‘Yeah, rule number one? Don’t call her “spawn”.’

‘Offspring?’ Jacob tries.

Marcus pinches Jacob’s arm. ‘Get fucked. That’s just a terrible band.’

‘Piss off, Offspring were amazing!’ Jacob thinks for a moment. ‘Mini-Marcus?’ 

Marcus let’s out a short laugh. ‘She’s a fucking girl!’

‘So, Babydoll? Cutiepie?’

‘God, no, that’s sexist. And while we’re at it, stop saying “like a girl” like that’s a bad thing.’

‘Look at you, Mr. Feminism!’ Jacob props himself up on his elbow and looks down at Marcus’s face with a smile. ‘Jesus, Marc. You, with a little girl . . . Can’t wait to meet her.’


End file.
